But ours are not the maids to bite A gore or gusset undone; How neat they look, how trim and tight!

Those frocks were made in London.

Long time, we glance in awe and doubt, Suppressing all frivolity; Till the spirit of the age breaks out, And all is mirth and jollity.

One flash, that stole from eyes demure, Hath scattered all convention; And then a pearly laugh makes sure That fun is her intention.

The smiling elders march ahead; We dance, without a fiddler, We play at cross-touch, White and Red, Tip-cat, and Tommy Tidier.

We laugh and shout, much more than speak, No etiquette importunes; The trees were made for hide-and-seek, The flowers to tell our fortunes;

The hills, for pretty girls to pant, And glow with richer roses; The wind itself, to toss askant The curls that hide their noses.

Then sprightly Carry shouts in French-- "All boys and girls, come nutting!"

We are slipping down a mighty trench-- Why, it is the Railway cutting I

Before us yawns a dark-browed arch, Paved with a muddy runnel; A thousand giant navvies march To delve the White-Ball tunnel.

Oh, if a man of them but did Presume to glance at Carry, Though he were Milo, or John Ridd, I would toss him to Old Harry.

I pull my jacket off, like him Who would shatter England's pillars-- From the tunnel comes an order grim, "Get out of the way you chillers!"

And the same stern order doth apply To the pranks of this remote age!

We are sure alike to be thrust by, In our nonage, and our dotage.

Yet who shall grudge the tranquil age, When nought can now betide ill, To glance, from a distant hermitage, At a summer morning idyll?

Oh agony, despair, and woe!

Oh two-edged sword to us come!

To Blundell's must the body go, While the heart remains at Bus...o...b...

All breakfast time, how glum we looked!

Our tears were threatening dribblets; Too truly had our goose been cooked, To leave us e'en our giblets.

Sweet Charlotte, did you share the thrill, The pang; no throat may utter, And strive an aching void to fill With heartless toast and b.u.t.ter?

And were you sad, bright Caroline, Although you never said so?

You did cast down your lovely eyne, And you crumbled up your bread so!

But the Vicar's views were more sublime, As he asked in all simplicity, "My youthful friends, what is the prime Of all mundane felicity?"

My answer, though it sounded cool, Was given with trepidation-- "To stay at home, and send to school The rising generation."

A gentle smile flits o'er his lip, He eyes me with benignity; He yearns to offer goodly tip, Yet fears to wound my dignity.

True benefactor, be not shy, Thou seest a humble fellow, Thy n.o.ble impulse gratify--.

My stars, if it isn't yellow!

But time is over, and above, To end this charming visit; And must we part my own true love?

Though I am not sure, which is it.

Sweet Charlotte lingered in the shade, Most gentle of all houris; Bright Carry in the lobby played With a pair of polished cowries.

She showed me how alike they were, So Heaven had pleased to make them.

Though fortune might divide the pair, She ne'er could separate them.

I blushed, and stammered at her touch, I feared to beg for either; My heart was in my mouth so much, I could say "Goodbye" to neither.

Two strings are wise for every bow, To meet the change of weather; And Cupid's shafts give softer blow, When two are tied together.

Oh, Charlotte sweet, and Carry bright, My whole, or double-half love, Let no maturer wisdom slight A simple tale of calf-love.

A blessing on the maiden grace, That beautifies the real, To make the world a fairer place, And lift the low ideal!

If one, or both, by any chance, Behold what I confess here, Make auld lang syne of young romance, By sending your address here.

And answer--as I trust you can, When time is flying faster, That he hath served you better than Your humble poetaster.

_Postscript (a Fact)_

This have they done--and oh, by Jove, Not altered by a fraction!

If then they were too sweet to love, What are they now? Distraction.

Of course they must be ever young; How could I be so stupid?

Time fell in love with both, and flung His calendar to Cupid!

[Ill.u.s.tration: 175.]

TO FAME

I

Right Fairy of the morn, with flowers arrayed, Whose beauties to thy young pursuer seem Beyond the ecstasy of poet's dream-- Shall I overtake thee, ere thy l.u.s.tre fade?

II